N  Tn 
ALLEY 

KATMERINE     M.YATES 


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HARMONY  SHOP 
BOSTON 


A  Book  hath  more  of  the  reader  than  of  the 
writer  between  its  covers.  See  that  thou  dost 
find  good  within  thy  books. 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

In  which  Marjorie  finds  out  what  was  the  matter 
in  the  valley, —  and  in  the  world. 


BY 

KATHER1NE  M.  YATES 

Author  of  y 

On  the  ~Waj  There,  At  the  Door,  "Bj  the  Roadside,  Chet, 
Up  the  Sunbeams,  etc. 


THE 

HARMONY  SHOP 

38   WEST   ST.,    BOSTON 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
KATHERINE  M.  YATES 


To 

THE  GARDENIA  LADY,  MY  FIRST 
FRIEND  IN  ALOHA  LAND 


2049866 


FOREWORD 

The  little  books  of  the  "Marjorie  and  the 
Dream"  series  are  not  written  primarily  for  chil- 
dren in  years;  but  are  for  the  little  girl  or  boy 
within,  who  never  has  grown  up,  and  never  will 
grow  up.  Those  who  would  find  the  kernel 
of  these  bits  of  allegory,  have  but  to  know  that 
Marjorie  is  this  ever-young  child  within;  and  the 
Dream,  beside  his  dream  character,  is  the  pros- 
ecuting attorney,  self-analysis,  who  asks  us  ques- 
tions —  questions  which  we  all  must  answer 
either  now  or  sometime  in  the  years  to  come. 

K.  M.  Y. 

Honolulu. 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

"The  'Dream'  was  little  and  thin  and  brown;  and  he  wore  a 
tight-fitting  brown  velvet  suit,  and  very  pointed  little  brown  velvet 
slippers,  and  a  little  brown  velvet  cap  perched  jauntily  on  one  side 
of  his  head;  —  and  he  had  a  rather  uncomfortable  way  of  giggling 
at  things  which  Marjorie  did  not  find  at  att  funny." 

From  —  "On  the  Way  There"  By  KATHEKINE  M.  YATES. 

"  "\  Tou've  been  awake  for  quite  a  long  time," 
j      said  the  Dream. 

Marjorie  did  not  answer;  but  she  lay 
very  still,  with  her  eyes  wide  open  and  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth  looking  wonderfully  sweet. 

The  Dream  swung  his  feet  back  and  forth  as 
he  sat  on  the  foot-board  and  watched  her.  Pre- 
sently a  tiny  breeze  came  in  at  the  window  and 
blew  a  little  loose  lock  of  hair  across  her  face. 
She  put  up  her  hand  and  brushed  it  away  and 
then  lay  still  again;  but  in  a  moment  the  sweet 
look  went  from  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  and  a 
little  frown  came  between  her  eyebrows.  "Oh 
dear!"  she  said. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  Dream. 

"That's  just  it,"  exclaimed  Marjorie  savagely; 
"The  matterl  Whenever  there  is  any  trouble  or 
anything  goes  wrong,  someone  always  says '  What's 
the  matter*!'  And  it  always  is  matter.  The 

13 


14  In  the  Valley 

thing  that  interferes  with  whatever  is  worth  while, 
that  spoils  everything  and  upsets  everything,  is 
always  matter  I" 

"And  isn't  it  curious,"  said  the  Dream,  "that 
everybody  admits  it;  but  not  nearly  everybody 
knows  it?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Marjorie. 

"Well,  not  nearly  everybody  knows  that  what 
is  called  matter,  is  at  the  root  of  all  trouble;  and 
lots  of  folks  would  argue  their  heads  off  that  it 
isn't  so;  —  and  yet  those  same  folks,  just  as  soon 
as  anything  unpleasant  happens,  immediately  say 
'What's  the  matter?'  admitting  the  fact  involun- 
tarily, showing  that  they  really  know  the  truth 
inside,  even  if  they  won't  let  it  come  to  the  sur- 
face." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Marjorie.  "It  is  curious 
that  a  truth  should  have  worked  its  way  into  a 
language  and  into  everybody's  consciousness, 
enough  for  them  to  keep  stating  it  constantly; 
when  if  you  called  their  attention  to  it,  a  lot  of 
them  would  be  right  down  indignant." 

"And  another  lot  of  them  would  say  that  it 
showed  what  a  wonderful  way  the  truth  has  of 
penetrating  where  it  isn't  expected,  and  some- 
times isn't  even  wanted." 

Marjorie  curled  her  arm  around  under  her  head 
and  lay  looking  out  at  the  big  apple-tree.  "I 
read  somewhere,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "that 
*  Matter  is  experience.' " 


In  the  Valley  15 

"Is  that  right?"  asked  the  Dream.  "Have  all 
of  your  experiences  been  material?" 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Marjorie,  "not  nearly  all. 
None  of  the  biggest  ones  have  been." 

"Well  then,  how  would  you  put  it?"  asked  the 
Dream. 

Marjorie  thought  for  quite  a  long  time.  "I 
believe,"  she  said,  "that  I  would  say  that  matter 
is  human  experience." 

"Good;"  said  the  Dream.  "And  as  human 
life  is  made  up  of  the  same  sort  of  stuff  that  I  am, 
that  disposes  of  "matter"  pretty  thoroughly, 
doesn't  it?" 

"It  certainly  does,"  said  Marjorie.  "Looking 
at  it  that  way  makes  it  a  lot  easier  to  say,  '  Noth- 
ing is  the  matter,'  when  people  ask  the  question, 
doesn't  it?" 

"What  else  do  you  get  out  of  it?"  asked  the 
Dream.  "A  clear  thought  isn't  good  for  much 
unless  you  get  something  out  of  it  that  you  can 
use  every  day.  You've  found  one  thing,  now  what 
else  is  there?" 

Marjorie  lay  still  and  thought  again.  "Well," 
she  said  at  last;  "if  matter  is  human  experience, 
and  matter  makes  all  of  our  troubles;  then  the 
right  thing  is  to  have  more  spiritual  experiences 
than  human  experiences;  and  when  our  spiritual 
experiences  over-balance  and  out-number  the 
human  ones;  then  we  will  really  begin  to  live 
a  spiritual  life.  If  the  thing  that  we  call  a 


16  In  the  Valley 

pnysical  body  is  just  a  bundle  of  human  thoughts 
made  from  human  experiences;  then  when  we 
begin  to  put  spiritual  thoughts  in  the  place  of  the 
human  ones,  we  will  begin  to  realize  what  we 
really  are;  and  that  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  us,  and  nothing  the  matter  in  us,  and  no 
matter  about  any  of  it;  but  that  Spirit  is  with 
us,  and  Spirit  is  in  us,  and  is  All  of  Every- 
thing." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  of 
that?"  asked  the  Dream. 

"Use  it,"  said  Marjorie;  "Use  it  for  an  eraser 
to  wipe  out  the  things  that  I  don't  want." 

"All  right,"  said  the  Dream;  "but  be  sure 
that  it  leaves  its  own  mark  wherever  you  wipe 
out  anything  with  it.  Don't  leave  a  blank  space 
for  just  any  old  thing  to  put  a  mark  on.  Now 
tell  me  why  you  were  making  such  a  fuss  about 
matter  a  while  ago." 

"Why,"  said  Marjorie,  "you  see,  I  brought 
back  such  a  wonderful  thing  when  I  wakened 
up  and  found  you  here.  I  seemed  to  have  had  a 
very  curious  dream;  and  then  following  that, 
some  one  had  given  me  a  message  that  was  so 
wonderful  and  so  beautiful !  —  and  I  remembered 
it,  and  I  lay  here  thinking  about  it  and  about  the 
many  ways  that  it  proved  its  truth;  —  and  then 
the  wind  blew  my  hair  into  my  eyes,  and  when 
I  had  brushed  it  away  and  turned  back  to  look 
at  my  beautiful  thought,  it  was  gone;  absolutely 


In  the  Valley  17 

gone,  and  I  couldn't  even  remember  what  it  was 
about;  —  and  oh,  I  didn't  want  to  lose  it!" 

"Can't  you  remember  anything  about  it  at 
all?" 

"No,  only  just  that  it  was  in  three  parts;  sort 
of  separated,  and  yet  all  bearing  a  kind  of  rela- 
tion to  each  other;  and  I  was  looking  at  them 
and  thinking  how  much  they  were  going  to  help 
me;  —  and  then  they  went  out,  just  like  a  candle, 
and  I  can't  catch  a  glimpse  of  them  again.  And 
yet,  do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  slowly,  "I  feel 
as  if  I  knew  them  just  inside  of  me;  as  if  they 
were  just  under  the  surface  and  I  could  still  see 
them  in  there;  but  can't  get  them  out  into  the 
open.  When  I  don't  look  toward  them,  it  seems 
as  if  I  knew  them  perfectly  clearly;  but  just  as 
soon  as  I  turn  that  way,  they  slip  out  of  sight." 

"Then  I  don't  think  that  I  should  worry," 
said  the  Dream;  "  for  when  they  are  right  there, 
like  that;  you  will  probably  use  them  just  the 
same  as  if  you  had  them  out  here  to  be  examined 
by  human  light.  And  besides,  they  will  prob- 
ably slip  out  when  you  are  not  looking;  and  the 
first  thing  that  you  know,  they  will  meet  you 
face  to  face  out  in  the  world  somewhere.  Per- 
haps we  might  go  out  now, —  and  see  what  we 
can  find." 

Marjorie  looked  doubtful.  "I'd  like  to,  but 
I  don't  know  just  how  to  begin." 

"You  don't  have  to  begin,"  said  the  Dream; 


18  In  the  Valley 

"We'll  just  walk  along  the  road  for  a  ways  and 
see  what  sort  of  experiences  you  will  attach  to 
your  present  collection  as  we  go.  Even  if  you 
don't  find  what  you  are  looking  for,  you'll  be 
accomplishing  something,  anyway." 

Marjorie  looked  down  the  road  which  length- 
ened before  them.  It  was  straight  and  not  much 
traveled,  though  somewhat  dusty;  but  along  its 
edge  there  was  a  strip  of  short,  bright,  green  grass, 
and  just  over  the  fence  were  some  market  gardens, 
all  brilliant  with  new  Spring  growth.  "  Let  us 
go  over  on  the  grass,"  said  Marjorie;  "it  is  so 
soft  and  cool;  and  see,  there  are  strawberries 
there  in  the  garden;  and  oh,  look,  there  are  rows 
and  rows  of  great  purple  violets!  Aren't  they 
beautiful!  And  you  can  smell  them  clear  over 
here;"  and  she  leaned  over  the  fence,  sniffing 
eagerly. 

In  a  moment  a  man  came  quickly  down  the 
furrow  toward  her.  His  face  was  rather  hard 
and  his  shoes  were  muddy  and  his  hands  dark 
with  soil.  He  approached,  looking  suspiciously  at 
Marjorie ;  but  she  smiled  back  at  him  with  so  much 
frank  unconsciousness  and  such  happiness  in  the 
things  that  she  was  looking  at,  that  he  appeared 
relieved,  and  kept  on  down  the  furrow  without 
looking  back.  Marjorie  walked  on,  gazing  joy- 
ously over  the  fence,  and  stopping  to  admire 
every  especially  purple  clump;  and  then  suddenly 
she  climbed  up  on  the  lowest  board,  her  eyes 


In  the  Valley  19 

shining.  "Oh,  do  see!"  she  cried;  "There  are 
double  ones,  great  big  blue  ones!  Did  you  ever 
see  such  long  stems  and  such  perfectly  gorgeous 
blossoms?" 

The  man  had  circled  around  that  end  of  the 
field,  and  now  approached,  walking  down  between 
the  rows  of  violets.  Here  and  there  he  stopped 
to  gather  a  few  particularly  large  ones.  As  he 
came  near,  Marjorie  jumped  down  from  the 
fence,  thinking  suddenly  that  he  might  not  like  to 
have  her  stand  upon  it;  but  as  she  stepped  back, 
he  called  to  her,  and  when  she  came  forward,  he 
held  out  to  her  the  bunch  of  flowers  that  he  had 
gathered  and  arranged  with  a  few  glossy  leaves. 
Marjorie  caught  her  lip  between  her  teeth.  "For 
me?"  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly;  "Oh,  I  love 
them!  Oh,  I  am  so  glad!"  and  she  looked  up  at 
him,  as  she  held  them  close  to  her  face.  "Oh, 
you  don't  know  how  glad  I  am!" 

The  man  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  away  without  speaking,  and  walked  off 
down  the  field. 

Marjorie  stared  wonderingly  after  him,  and 
then  turned  to  the  Dream.  "I  saw  it,"  she  said; 
"I  saw  it!" 

"Saw  what?"  said  the  Dream. 

"I  saw  the  thing  that  I  couldn't  remember, 
I  saw  it  in  his  face." 

"And  what  was  it?"  asked  the  Dream. 

"I   don't   know;"   Marjorie   shook   her   head 


20  In  the  Valley 

slowly;  "I  don't  know  what  it  was;  but  when  I 
looked  into  his  face,  I  saw  it  and  recognized  it; 
but  it  didn't  stay  with  me;  —  it  is  gone  again." 

"It  is  not  gone  from  just  below  the  surface,  is 
it?" 

"No,  it  is  there  just  the  same  as  ever;  but  it 
flashed  up  into  sight  or  an  instant  and  then 
slipped  back  again.  Oh  I  wish  that  I  could 
have  held  it.  Never  mind  I'm  sure  that  it  will 
come  again;  and  do  look  at  my  flowers.  Aren't 
they  wonderful?  And  I  never  did  smell  such 
sweet  ones.  Oh,  I  wish  that  I  could  love  every- 
body in  the  world  the  way  that  I  love  these  vio- 
lets." 

"Why  don't  you?"  asked  the  Dream. 

Marjorie  heaved  a  little  sigh.  "I  don't  know," 
she  said;  "Perhaps  I  love  the  violets  because 
they  give  themselves  so  freely.  They  are  never 
too  busy  nor  too  selfish  to  give  fragrance;  they 
are  never  too  busy  nor  too  selfish  to  give  their 
wonderful  color;  they  are  never  too  busy  nor 
too  selfish  to  give  the  dainty  freshness  of  their 
touch ;  —  and  yet  no  matter  how  much  they  give, 
they  have  just  as  much  left.  It  is  almost  as  if 
they  were  tiny  rents  in  the  curtain  between  us 
and  All-that-is-Lovely,  for  the  loveliness  to  slip 
through." 

"And  don't  you  give  them  anything  in  re- 
turn?" 

"No,"  said  Marjorie,  "I  only  love  them." 


In  the  Valley  21 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  Dream,  "the  love  slips 
back  through  the  violet  rents,  and  is  just  as  sweet 
to  some  one  on  the  other  side  of  the  curtain,  as 
the  fragrance  is  to  you  on  this  side." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  funny,"  she  said,  caressing  the 
flowers,  "if  this  wonderful  fragrance  and  color 
were  just  the  love  of  somebody  on  the  other  side, 
translated  into  violet  language  and  slipping 
through  the  rents  in  the  curtain  to  me,  and  if 
my  love  slips  back^to  them,  translated  the  same 
way?" 

The  Dream  smiled.  "We  are  full  of  whim- 
sies," he  said,  "aren't  we?  Well,  whimsies  or 
not,  we'll  keep  them  sweet,  anyway.  Let  us  go 
on  down  to  the  bridge  and  make  friends  with 
that  big  blossoming  elderberry  bush.  It  looks 
like  more  rents  in  the  curtain." 

The  bush  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  bridge, 
and  just  as  they  were  about  to  step  off  of  the 
boards  onto  the  ground,  a  little  whiff  of  wind 
tossed  the  end  of  Marjorie's  scarf  and  flicked  it 
against  the  rail  of  the  bridge.  Marjorie  caught 
at  it,  it  stuck  and  then  came  away  bringing  a 
splinter  and  a  long  end  of  loose  yarn.  Marjorie 
captured  the  loosened  stitches  between  her  thumb 
and  finger.  "Now  look  at  that!"  she  said.  "It 
will  ravel  all  the  way  up  the  scarf  if  I  don't  fix 
it  right  away.  We'll  sit  down  under  the  elder 
bush  and  I'll  catch  the  stitches  and  make  it  as 
good  as  new." 


22  In  the  Valley 

So  they  climbed  the  little  slope  at  the  side  of 
the  road  and  sat  down,  with  the  fragrant  blos- 
soms all  about  them;  and  Marjorie  took  a  long 
blade  of  grass  and  tied  the  stems  of  her  violets, 
and  laid  them  on  her  knee;  and  then  began  to 
examine  the  damage  done  to  her  scarf.  She 
loosened  the  splinter  and  then  began  to  laugh. 
"Oh  ho,"  she  said;  "your  work  is  cut  out  for 
you!  You  have  got  to  repair  the  damage  that 
you  did,  Mr.  Splinter.  You  are  just  the  thing 
to  loop  the  threads  back  with;"  and  she  began 
at  once  carefully  to  slip  one  loop  through  another 
and  pull  the  fabric  even  and  smooth.  It  was 
very  particular  work  and  she  had  to  be  very  care- 
ful that  no  threads  slipped  and  permitted  it  to 
ravel  back  again;  and  she  became  so  absorbed 
that  she  did  not  notice  that  an  automobile  had 
approached  and  stopped;  and  the  first  that  she 
knew  of  it  was  when  a  woman  leaned  out  of  the 
car  and  said,  in  a  very  cool  and  firm  voice:  "Little 
girl,  I  wish  to  buy  your  violets." 

Marjorie  looked  up  quickly.  She  could  not 
get  to  her  feet  without  disarranging  those  care- 
fully placed  stitches  and  leaving  her  work  worse 
than  when  she  began;  but  she  smiled  up  at  the 
woman  and  answered  brightly:  "  Oh,  I  don't  want 
to  sell  them.  They  were  given  to  me." 

The  woman  raised  her  head  slightly.  "You 
can  buy  more,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  but  I  couldn't  possibly  sell  them;   they 


In  the  Valley  23 

were  given  to  me,"  repeated  Marjorie.  "But  I 
think  that  you  could  buy  some  from  the  man 
just  down  the  road  there;"  she  added. 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  have  not 
time  to  wait  for  them  to  be  picked.  You  can 
surely  sell  me  those  and  pay  him  for  some  more." 

Marjorie's  head  went  up  a  little,  too.  "Of 
course  I  can't  sell  what  was  given  to  me,"  she 
said;  "and  besides,  I  can't  get  up  without  spoil- 
ing my  scarf  that  I  am  trying  to  mend.  I'm 
sorry,  but  I  can't  do  it;"  and  then  she  bent  lov- 
ingly to  the  precious  flowers  which  sent  up  to 
her  a  little  whiff  of  their  fragrance;  but  with 
the  little  whiff  of  fragrance,  came  a  little  whiff  of 
thought;  —  "Not  too  busy  nor  too  selfish  to 
give." 

Marjorie  tossed  aside  the  scarf  and  jumped 
up.  She  separated  a  half  a  dozen  blossoms  and 
a  glossy  leaf  and  tucked  them  in  her  belt  and 
then  went  to  the  car,  ho  ding  out  the  bunch  to 
the  woman.  "You. may  have  them,"  she  said. 

The  woman  took  them  in  her  hand.  "Now 
you  are  sensible,"  she  said  coolly,  and  held  out 
half  a  dollar. 

Marjorie  put  her  hands  behind  her.  "No," 
she  said,  "I  couldn't  take  pay  for  them;  but  I 
am  glad  to  give  them  to  you." 

"Don't  be  silly!"  said  the  woman,  irritably, 
still  holding  out  the  silver;  "If  you  didn't  want 
the  money,  why  did  you  give  them  to  me?" 


24  In  the  Valley 

Marjorie  smiled  up  at  her.  "Because  they 
told  me  that  they  were  never  too  busy  nor  too 
selfish  to  give  what  they  have,  their  fragrance  and 
loveliness." 

The  woman's  face  changed  and  she  sat  for  a 
moment,  looking  at  the  violets;  then  she  looked 
back  at  Marjorie,  and  there  were  little  misty 
lights  in  her  eyes.  "Suppose  that  we  divide 
them  more  equally,"  she  said  at  last.  "This  is 
more  than  I  really  want  to  wear;  and  if  we  divide 
them,  then  each  of  us  will  have  quite  a  large  bunch. 
Come,  climb  in  while  we  make  them  exactly 
equal." 

So  Marjorie  climbed  into  the  car  and  together 
they  carefully  separated  the  flowers  and  made 
them  into  two  very  lovely  bunches  which  they 
tied  with  grass,  wrapping  the  stems  in  damp 
leaves  to  keep  them  fresh,  and  meanwhile  chat- 
ting very  gaily.  When  they  had  finished  and 
Marjorie  stood  beside  the  car  again,  the  woman 
leaned  out  to  say  good-bye.  "Will  you  shake 
hands  with  me?"  she  said.  Marjorie  held  out 
her  hand  and  the  woman  held  it  close  for  quite 
a  long  minute,  looking  down  into  her  eyes;  then 
she  said  good-bye  and  the  car  drove  away. 

Marjorie  turned  and  looked  at  the  Dream.  "I 
almost  got  it  that  time,"  she  said;  "It  looked 
out  right  at  me  from  her  eyes;  and  then,  just  as 
I  had  it,  it  was  gone  again.  Oh,  I  wish  that 
I  could  hold  on  to  it." 


In  the  Valley  25 

"You  saw  it  in  her  eyes?" 

"Yes,  twice.  Once  when  she  was  angry  with 
me;  and  again  when  she  went  away." 

"You  saw  the  same  thing  both  times?" 

"No-o,"  said  Marjorie;  "The  time  that  she 
was  angry,  I  saw  the  message  through  its  opposite; 
I  saw  the  need  of  it;  —  I  saw  what  happened  if 
I  didn't  use  it;  —  and  that  was  why  I  understood 
the  violets'  message." 

"But  you  couldn't  remember  what  it  was?" 

"No,  it  was  still  under  the  surface." 

The  Dream  grinned.  "I  told  you  so.  I 
told  you  that  you  would  use  it  just  the  same; 
or  at  least  have  a  chance  to;  even  if  it  didn't 
come  to  the  surface." 

"Yes,  it  whispered  to  the  inner  side  of  me.  I 
knew  it  and  acted  from  it,  even  if  I  couldn't 
remember  it.  Isn't  it  strange  that  it  should 
just  lurk  there  and  refuse  to  come  out?" 

"Well,"  said  the  Dream;  "we  were  talking 
about  experiences;  and  perhaps  if  you  keep  on 
having  experiences  which  you  turn  into  spiritual 
experiences  as  soon  as  they  come,  you  will  live 
it  to  the  surface,  where  you  can  look  squarely 
at  it,  and  perhaps  pass  it  on  to  others  in  words, 
as  well  as  live  it;  but  I'll  tell  you  now,  that  it 
is  better  to  have  it  there  and  live  it,  than  to  have 
it  on  the  surface  and  not  live  it." 

Marjorie  went  back  and  sat  down  to  her  work 
with  the  scarf,  and  the  Dream  slid  down  beside 


26  In  the  Valley 

her  and  held  the  loose  stitches  with  his  small 
brown  fingers,  so  that  in  a  very  few  minutes  the 
loops  were  all  slipped  into  place  and  the  loose 
ends  knotted  neatly,  and  the  scarf  was  quite 
itself  again.  Marjorie  spread  it  out  on  her  knees 
and  examined  her  work  carefully.  "I  think  that 
it  looks  wonderfully  well,"  she  said;  "much 
better  than  I  expected;  for  it  seemed  as  if  it 
would  be  absolutely  ruined  when  I  got  up." 

The  Dream  grinned.  "More  damage  would 
have  been  done  if  you  had  not  got  up,"  he  said. 
"Dropped  opportunities  are  a  lot  worse  than 
dropped  stitches,  and  not  nearly  so  easily  picked 
up.  Now  what  do  you  get  out  of  that?" 

"That  you  can  always  drop  material  experi- 
ences, for  spiritual  experiences,  and  come  out  the 
winner,"  said  Marjorie. 

"But  the  violets  looked  material,"  said  the 
Dream. 

"But  the  woman's  thought  was  not,"  said 
Marjorie.  "The  loving  thought  was  lurking 
right  underneath  the  anger,  ready  to  pop  out 
the  minute  a  way  was  made  for  it.  Oh,  dear,  I 
just  had  that  message  right  on  my  tongue's  end 
at  that  moment,  and  it  got  away  again!  I  al- 
most had  it." 

"There  are  stars  in  your  hair;"  laughed  the 
Dream,  shaking  a  long  branch  of  the  elder  bush, 
so  that  the  tiny  white  blossoms  showered  down  all 
over  her.  Marjorie  brushed  them  away,  laugh- 


In  the  Valley  27 

ing  too,  and  as  she  looked  up  again,  she  noticed 
two  women  who  were  walking  toward  her,  across 
the  bridge.  They  stopped  only  a  few  feet  away 
and  stood  looking  down  at  the  water  and  talk- 
ing about  their  work.  They  seemed  tired,  and 
their  faces  were  those  of  rather  dull,  laboring 
people  who  had  been  g  ven  no  chance  of  the  cheery 
things  of  life.  As  they  stood  there,  one  had  her 
back  in  the  direction  from  which  they  had  come, 
and  the  other  leaned  upon  the  rail  and  shielded 
her  eyes  from  the  sun  as  she  gazed  at  the  ripples 
of  the  noisy  little  stream  below.  Presently 
they  fell  silent,  and  Marjorie  sat  watching  them 
and  became  so  interested  in  wondering  whether 
there  was  anything  there  for  her  to  do,  that  she 
did  not  at  first  notice  a  man  who  was  approach- 
ing from  the  other  end  of  the  bridge  He  was  a 
rather  tall  young  man  and  held  his  head  high 
and  was  walking  lightly  and  rapidly,  as  one 
accustomed  to  the  way  and  in  some  haste.  As 
he  came  nearer,  she  noticed  that  he  held  one  hand 
extended  in  a  curious  way,  toward  the  center 
of  the  bridge,  while  the  other  brushed  along  the 
rail;  and  then  as  he  came  quite  close,  she  saw 
that  he  was  blind;  and  she  also  saw  that  in  the 
way  that  he  was  walking,  he  was  sure  to  come 
into  collision  with  the  woman  whose  back  was 
toward  him;  as  he  was  absolutely  unconscious 
of  anyone  on  the  bridge,  and  his  outstretched 
hands  were  not  in  a  position  to  warn  him  in  time. 


28  In  the  Valley 

And  then,  before  she  could  call  out,  it  had  hap- 
pened: his  chest  had  struck  the  woman's  shoulder 
with  a  terrible  jar  which  nearly  threw  her  from 
her  feet,  and  at  the  same  time  he  was  flung  back 
against  the  rail  of  the  bridge,  which  he  caught 
with  both  hands.  The  woman  turned  with  a 
violent  exclamation,  and  Marjorie  saw  her  face 
and  shuddered;  for  it  was  distorted  with  coarse 
anger  and  evil  passion;  but  as  she  faced  the  man, 
suddenly  something  seemed  to  drop  away  from 
it;  the  anger  all  went  out,  the  passion  disappeared, 
and  up  into  it  welled  tenderness  and  compassion 
and  all  of  the  sweetness  of  womanhood;  her  whole 
figure  seemed  to  change  and  straighten  and  grow 
fair;  and  she  took  hold  of  the  man's  arm  with 
gentle  hands  and  tender,  pitiful  words,  and  led 
him  from  the  bridge  and  up  onto  the  smooth, 
grassy  way  beside  the  road,  and  put  his  hand  on 
the  top  board  of  the  fence,  and  patted  him  on 
the  shoulder;  and  then  went  back  to  her  friend. 

At  first  Marjorie  had  sprung  to  her  feet  and 
stood  with  her  hands  clasped  hard  together  and 
her  eyes  eager.  When  she  saw  that  there  was 
nothing  for  her  to  do,  she  still  stood  with  clasped 
hands,  looking  at  the  woman,  who  had  appar- 
ently not  even  noticed  her  presence.  Then  she 
turned  to  the  Dream,  her  eyes  all  alight.  "Oh," 
she  said,  "  I've  got  it!  I've  got  it!" 

"You  are  sure? "  asked  the  Dream.  " It  didn't 
get  away  this  time?" 


In  the  Valley  29 

"No,  no;  I  have  it,"  said  Marjorie,  "I  got  it 
from  the  face  of  the  woman;  —  the  whole  of  the 
first  part,  exactly  as  it  was  given  to  me  just  be- 
fore I  wakened  up.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  that  I  have 
it!" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  Dream. 

Marjorie  still  held  her  hands  tight  together, 
and  said  the  words  in  a  low,  awed  voice :  — 

Lo,  I  look  out  upon  thee  from  the  faces  of  all 

men; 
See  that  thou  dost  give  me  cause  to  look  upon 

thee  with  love." 

The  Dream  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Yes," 
he  said,  at  last,  "now  I  understand  why  you 
saw  it  in  the  faces  of  those  who  gave  you  expe- 
riences. It  is  a  message  worlh  keeping  and  us- 
ing. And,"  he  went  on,  "you  notice  that  it 
says  all  men.  That  is  a  good  point  to  remember. 
There  are  some  faces  from  which  we  never  think 
of  Him  looking  forth  to  gaze  upon  us  and  what  we 
do  and  think  and  say;  —  and  yet  it  is  from  just 
those  that  the  greatest  experiences  are  likely  to 
come." 

"And  those  are  the  places  where  it  is  so  hard 
to  earn  His  love,"  said  Marjorie,  gravely. 

"But,"  said  the  Dream,  "doesn't  He  always 
look  with  love,  and  give  love?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie;  "but  I  don't  always 
give  Him  cause  to.  It  is  only  because  He  sees 


30  In  the  Valley 

through  the  veil  of  my  face  and  my  actions  that 
He  is  able  to.  He  wants  us  to  be  always  worthy 
of  what  He  gives." 

"I  think  that  it  is  a  very  good  message,"  said 
the  Dream.  "And  can't  you  remember  the 
other  two  parts?" 

"No,  but  they  are  right  close  to  the  surface, 
where  this  one  was;  so  I  am  sure  that  they  will 
come  through.  I  almost  got  the  second  part 
when  I  got  this;  for  it  seemed  to  be  in  some  way 
connected  with  it;  but  I  only  caught  a  glimpse, 
and  then  it  slipped  back  again.  Let  us  go  on 
and  see  if  something  doesn't  bring  them  into  the 
open." 

Down  the  road  a  little  way,  they  passed  a 
clump  of  tall  trees,  and  just  beyond  these,  another 
road  branched  off  and  seemed  to  run  far  up  a 
long,  green  valley  with  high,  steep  mountain 
walls  upon  either  side.  "Oh,  let  us  go  this  way," 
cried  Marjorie;  "It  is  the  loveliest  valley  that 
I  ever  saw;  and  the  mountain  sides  are  as  green 
as  the  floor  of  it;  and  isn't  the  stream  the  very 
clearest  water  in  the  whole  world?"  The  road 
was  smooth  and,  like  the  one  which  they  had 
left,  was  not  much  traveled;  but  there  were  many 
pretty  cottages  along  the  way,  with  tiny  gardens 
full  of  brilliant  flowers;  and  a  lot  of  merry  chil- 
dren were  romping  and  frolicking  and  chasing 
each  other  about  the  yards  and  out  into  the  road, 
with  gay  shouting  and  much  laughter.  Marjorie 


In  the  Valley  31 

walked  along  slowly,  watching  them  and  laugh- 
ing at  their  clever  dodging  and  funny  antics; 
and  presently  she  saw  a  larger  boy  coming  toward 
her  along  the  road.  He  was  bare-footed  and  was 
whistling  and  swinging  a  long,  lithe,  green  switch. 
Just  before  he  reached  her,  two  small  children 
dashed  out  of  a  near-by  gate  and  one  of  them 
rushed  up  to  the  boy  and  catching  hold  of  his 
knees,  began  using  him  as  a  shield,  in  his  wild 
effort  to  escape  the  "tag"  of  the  other. 

"Look  out,  kiddies!"  said  the  larger  boy,  laugh- 
ing and  swinging  aside  to  escape  them.  In  doing 
so,  he  was  careless  of  the  long,  green  switch  and 
it  struck  Marjorie  a  sharp  blow  on  the  cheek. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  starting  back  quickly, 
her  eyes  flashing  and  her  face  startled  and  angry; 
"Why  can't  you  be  more  careful!" 

The  boy  flushed.  "Excuse  me,  Miss,"  he 
said,  smiling  awkwardly;  but  as  Marjorie  con- 
tinued to  look  at  him  with  indignation,  holding 
her  hand  to  the  welt  on  her  cheek,  a  sullen  look 
flashed  into  his  eyes  and  he  turned  on  his  heel  and 
walked  away. 

The  change  in  his  face  was  so  sudden  that 
Marjorie  caught  her  breath  and  turned  to  call 
him  back;  but  just  as  she  turned,  two  more 
laughing  little  boys  came  tearing  out  of  a  gate 
and  plunged  across  his  path,  though  without 
touching  him.  This  time,  instead  of  laughing 
with  them,  he  raised  the  switch,  threateningly. 


32  In  the  Valley 

"Get  out!"  he  said;  "What's  the  matter  with 
you!"  and  then  he  slouched  on,  a  very  different 
looking  figure  from  the  whistling  boy  who  had 
approached  a  few  moments  before. 

The  little  boys  dodged  away,  shouting  roughly 
to  him;  and  then  one  succeeded  in  hitting  the 
other  for  "tag,"  and  started  to  run.  "Say,  quit 
your  hitting  so  hard!"  called  the  other.  "Wait 
till  I  get  you!"  and  started  angrily  after  his  play- 
mate. 

Marjorie  stood  still,  looking  with  startled 
eyes.  The  boys  ran  in  among  a  group  of  other 
children,  and  almost  immediately  a  sound  of 
wrangling  began;  other  children  came  to  see 
what  was  the  matter;  mothers  appeared  at  the 
door-ways  and  called  angrily  to  their  children, — 
and  presently  to  each  other;  —  and  the  whole  at- 
mosphere of  the  beautiful  valley  became  changed 
from  cheery  happiness  to  ill-natured  wrangling 
and  contention. 

Marjorie  watched  in  dismay.  Presently  she 
turned  to  the  Dream.  "Just  think,"  she  said, 
"/did  all  that!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Dream,  "you  did.  Hard 
words  and  black  looks  breed  fast." 

"You'll  be  sorry  that  you  said  that!"  called 
one  woman  to  another. 

"Wait  till  my  husband  gets  home  tonight," 
came  the  answer;  "We'll  see  what  that  boy  of 
yours  will  get." 


In  the  Valley  33 

"Well,  my  husband  will  have  something  to 
say  about  that  time.  I  guess  — " 

Marjorie  stopped  up  her  ears.  There  seemed 
nothing  that  she  could  do,  it  had  all  gotten  so 
far  beyond  her;  and  so  she  turned  into  a  little 
path  which  led  into  the  woods  just  at  a  curve  of 
the  road.  The  Dream  walked  along  beside  her 
quietly.  Soon  they  were  out  of  hearing  of  the 
unpleasant  sounds,  and  Marjorie  stopped  and 
stood  leaning  against  the  mossy  trunk  of  a  great 
tree  that  overhung  the  little  stream.  The  Dream 
spoke;  "Stopping  up  your  ears  and  running 
away,  helped  some,  didn't  it?"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Marjorie,  "it  didn't  help  either 
them  or  me;  but  I  couldn't  do  any  good  by  stay- 
ing, and  so  I  came  away  to  think." 

"And  have  you  thought  it  out?" 

"Yes,  because  it  brought  me  a  part  of  the  dream 
that  came  before  the  message." 

"And  what  was  the  dream?" 

"Well,"  said  Marjorie,  "I  seemed  to  be  in 
the  queerest  sort  of  a  place;  a  kind  of  a  store- 
room, full  of  shelves  and  pigeon-holes;  and  the 
pigeon-holes  were  full  of  the  most  curious  things, 
and  at  first  I  couldn't  make  out  what  they  were; 
but  they  were  alive,  and  every  time  that  I  said 
anything,  a  lot  of  them  would  fly  down  and  crawl 
into  the  ears  of  the  person  I  was  speaking  to, 
just  as  if  I  had  sent  them;  and  the  person's  face 
would  change  when  they  were  in,  and  would 


34  In  the  Valley 

smile  or  look  cross  or  hurt,  just  as  if  the  queer 
things  were  pulling  strings  attached  to  their 
mouths  and  their  eyes  and  their  hearts." 

"What  did  the  things  look  like?"  asked  the 
Dream. 

"Why,  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  them," 
said  Marjorie;  "but  they  were  little  and  of  all 
sorts  of  different  shapes.  Some  were  beautiful, 
and  some  had  sharp  edges  and  corners,  or  even 
things  like  spear-heads  sticking  out  of  them,  — 
of  course  those  hurt  when  they  went  into  people's 
ears.  And  some  were  soft  and  fluffy  and  looked 
like  caresses;  and  some  were  hard  like  stones; 
and  some  were  all  puckered  up,  as  if  they  were 
bitter;  and  some  had  strings  to  them;  and  some 
were  hollow;  and  some  were  strong  and  firm  and 
fine;  and  some  "were  weak  and  whimpery  sort 
of  things  that  I  could  hear  whine  as  they  passed 
me;  and  some  seemed  very  important;  and  some 
were  just  loving  and  tender." 

"But  what  were  they?"  asked  the  Dream  again. 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  at  first;  though  it  seemed 
as  if  I  knew  inside,  just  as  I  know  the  rest  of  the 
message  inside,  now;  but  I  kept  on  calling  them 
down  from  the  pigeon-holes  and  sending  them  to 
people.  And  they  had  such  a  curious  way  of 
forming  companionships,  sometimes,  as  they  flut- 
tered down;  so  that  very  hard  looking,  deter- 
mined ones  might  combine  with  tender,  soft  ones, 
and  all  of  the  hardness  and  the  sharp  edges  be 


In  the  Valley  35 

covered  up  and  the  soft  ones  made  stronger  and 
able  to  fly  straighter;  and  then  too,  the  hard 
ones  didn't  hurt  so  much." 

"And  you  didn't  find  out  what  they  were?" 
asked  the  Dream. 

"Yes,  I  did  at  last.  They  were  words.  Just 
the  words  that  we  use  all  the  time  every  day. 
And  when  I  found  that  out,  I  watched  them;  and 
watched  them  pul  the  strings  behind  people's 
faces;  and  it  was  wondenul.  I  never  had  an 
idea  how  much  power  they  had." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Dream,  "and  think  of  the 
careless  way  that  people  sling  them  around.  And 
think  how  permanent  they  are.  I've  seen  them 
working  the  strings  behind  people's  faces  ten  — 
twenty  —  fifty  years  after  they  were  sent  flying 
into  their  ears  And  yet  folks  just  sling  them 
around." 

"And  I  noticed,"  said  Marjorie,  soberly,  "that 
when  I  called  down  certain  ones,  the  people  into 
whose  ears  they  went,  almost  always  called  down 
the  same  kind  and  sent  them  off  at  other  folks 
in  all  sorts  of  different  directions." 

The  Dream  nodded.  '"Like  breeds  like,'"  he 
said  sagely. 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  "and  that  is  why  I 
suddenly  remembered  it,  after  what  happened 
with  the  boy  back  there.  Just  think  of  all  that 
came  from  those  few  that  I  sent;  —  and  they 
weren't  such  very  ugly  ones." 


36  In  the  Valley 

"No,  but  you  put  the  barb  in  with  your  voice 
and  your  eyes." 

"Oh  wait!"  interrupted  Marjorie.  "Oh  dear, 
I  almost  had  the  rest  of  that  message  then! 
Something  that  you  said  brought  it  right  up  to 
the  surface.  Well,  it's  gone  again.  Yes,  I  did 
put  the  barb  in,  or  rather  it  got  caught  in  as  it 
went  past.  If  I  could  always  see  the  words,  the 
way  that  I  did  when  I  watched  the  pigeon-holes, 
I  certainly  would  be  more  careful  of  the  kind 
that  I  send  about.  When  you  see  them,  with 
sharp  edges  and  spiney  sides,  you  feel  like  calling 
them  right  back,  before  they  can  do  any  harm; 
but  you  never  can, —  they  are  too  quick  for  you, 
when  once  they  are  called  down  from  their  places; 
and  then  all  that  you  can  do  is  to  send  soft,  comfy 
ones  right  after,  to  try  to  pad  the  harsh  ones  so 
that  they  won't  hurt  so  much  where  they  have 
lodged;  but  you  can  never  quite  .  .  .  ." 

"No,"  said  the  Dream;  "They  are  like  one 
of  those  barbed  seed-pods  that  keep  on  working 
in  and  in,  and  rankling  and  rankling.  Well, 
we've  got  the  lesson,  so  there's  no  use  in  mulling 
it  over;  just  remember  it,  that's  all.  Let's  be 
getting  on." 

A  little  farther  on,  the  valley  widened  into  a 
great  circle,  with  tall  green  mountains  all  around 
it,  and  long  white  streamers  of  water-falls  swing- 
ing down  their  steep  sides  and  flashing  in  the 
sun-light.  The  floor  of  the  valley  was  almost  level 


In  the  Valley  37 

and  was  a  wonderful  picture  of  perfect  cultiva- 
tion. Market  gardens  and  small  farms  in  every 
direction,  and  all  among  the  fields  were  people 
working  with  plows  and  hoes  and  harrows  and 
fingers.  Everyone  was  busy,  and  the  keen  smell 
of  fresh  earth  in  the  spring-time  and  of  bruised 
green  growths,  came  blowing  from  far  over  to- 
ward the  foot  of  the  mountains.  All  were  work- 
ing with  zeal,  and  their  voices  sounded  gay  and 
full  of  enthusiasm  as  they  called  to  each  other, 
or  shouted  to  their  horses,  or  sang  at  their  tasks. 
Marjorie  walked  along,  looking  this  way  and 
that  at  the  cheery  life  of  the  valley,  and  breath- 
ing in  great  breaths  of  the  clear,  sweet  air.  "  Isn't 
it  a  wonderful  valley?"  she  said  to  the  Dream. 
"All  of  the  people,  and  the  animals,  and  the  soil, 
and  even  the  very  air,  seem  to  be  full  of  eagerness 
to  see  what  is  to  be  brought  forth,  and  can  scarcely 
work  fast  enough  in  their  anxiety  to  help." 

"Work  and  expectation  are  wonderful  heart- 
eners,"  said  the  Dream.  "They  are  the  finest 
stimulants  that  ever  were  manufactured." 

"Yes,  and  the  very  atmosphere  here  is  full  of 
just  those  things,"  said  Marjorie.  "It  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  just  must  get  busy  myself,  right  off. 
I  am  absolutely  the  only  person  in  this  whole 
valley  who  isn't  working." 

"No,"  said  the  Dream;  "You  are  not  as  lone- 
some as  you  think." 

Marjorie  looked  about,  and  then  for  the  first 


38  In  the  Valley 

time,  she  noticed  a  man  who  sat  by  the  road-side 
near  her,  looking  out  over  the  valley  with  gloomy 
eyes. 

As  she  drew  nearer  to  him  and  saw  the  loose 
way  in  which  he  sat,  and  the  loose  set  of  his  jaw, 
she  turned  her  face  away  with  a  momentary 
feeling  of  impatience,  and  walked  on.  Then 
suddenly  she  glanced  at  the  Dream.  "The  part 
that  I  couldn't  remember,  just  slipped  right 
through  my  mind"  she  said,  "and  then  slid  off 
down  the  valley,  just  as  if  that  little  whiff  of 
wind  had  brought  it,  and  carried  it  away  again." 

"What  caused  it?"  asked  the  Dream. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie.  "It  just  slid 
by  and  was  gone." 

The  Dream  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You 
aren't  very  observing,  are  you?"  he  said. 

"Why?"  asked  Marjorie,  looking  about  again. 

"Well,"  said  the  Dream,  "if  you  were  observ- 
ing of  experiences,  you  would  have  noticed  that 
when  a  little  whiff  of  something  slips  through 
your  mind,  there  has  always  been  a  cause  for  it. 
Sometimes  it  is  a  little  whiff  of  memory,  a  glimpse 
of  something  that  you  never  saw  but  once  in 
your  life,  which  some  bit  of  a  sound  has  brought 
back,  without  your  even  noticing  the  sound  it- 
self. Perhaps  it  is  a  bit  of  incident  of  a  long, 
long  time  ago,  brought  merely  by  the  flick  of 
light  on  a  bird's  wing  as  if  flashes  past.  Or  per- 
haps it  is  a  vague  whisper  of  last  night's  dream, 


In  the  Valley  39 

as  in  this  case.  But  there  is  always  a  cause, 
always  a  cause." 

Marjorie  stood  still,  and  then  turned  and  looked 
back  down  the  road.  "There!"  she  exclaimed, 
"I  got  it  again.  It  is  something  back  there. 
I'll  have  to  go  back  and  see."  So  she  began  to 
retrace  her  steps,  looking  carefully  to  the  right 
and  left  as  she  walked.  Presently  she  came  to 
the  man,  who  still  sat  listlessly  gazing  out  over 
the  valley  and  its  eager  workers.  Marjorie  was 
passing  again,  with  only  a  glance,  when  suddenly 
she  stopped  and  walked  over  and  stood  smiling 
beside  the  man.  "Isn't  it  a  wonderfully  busy 
scene?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  gloomily;  "Yes,  it  is  full 
of  activities.  I  envy  them." 

"You  envy  them?"  said  Marjorie  in  surprise. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  used  to  work  with  just  such 
enthusiasm;  but  it  is  all  past  now." 

"Aren't  you  —  aren't  you  well?"  asked  Mar- 
jorie. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  replied,  "I'm  well  enough; 
but  I've  lost  my  grip." 

Marjorie  looked  at  him  doubtfully;  "You 
mean.  .  .  .?" 

"Yes,  I've  lost  my  grip.  It  was  at  the  time  of 
the  flood,  over  in  the  other  valley.  I  lived  over 
there  and  the  flood  came,  and  everybody  got  out 
and  worked  to  save  lives  and  property,  but  I 
couldn't;  I  wasn't  any  good.  I  didn't  know  how 


40  In  the  Valley 

to  manage  a  boat,  and  I  never  was  strong  for 
lifting  things,  and  I  wasn't  used  to  that  kind  of 
work,  and  I  wasn't  well,  anyway;  and  I  sort  of 
went  to  pieces  because  I  couldn't  do  the  things 
that  the  others  did.  It  crushed  me  and  I  have 
never  been  able  to  get  out  from  under  the  weight 
of  it;  and  I  lost  my  grip.  To  think  of  others 
being  able  to  save  lives  and  do  heroic  things,  and 
I  couldn't  help;  I  was  only  in  the  way.  Oh, 
it  was  humiliating!" 

"But  -  "  began  Marjorie,  frowning  impatiently. 
Then  she  stopped  and  sat  down  on  the  grass  and 
laid  her  violets  on  her  knee  again,  and  sat  and 
looked  at  them  until  her  face  softened  once  more 
and  her  eyes  grew  gentle.  "How  long  ago  did 
that  happen?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"Two  years  ago,"  he  said.  "Two  years  ago 
this  Spring,  and  I  can  never  get  over  it.  I  had 
a  farm  and  horses;  oh,  wonderful  horses;  but 
everything  is  gone.  I  couldn't  forget.  I  couldn't 
do  anything.  I  lost  all  that  I  had,  and  then 
I  came  away." 

"Were  —  were  people  unkind  to  you  about 
it?"  asked  Marjorie. 

"Oh,  no,  nobody  was  unkind.  They  knew  that 
I  was  not  able  to  do  the  things  that  they  did; 
oh,  such  brave  things,  and  they  tried  to  make  me 
forget;  but  they  couldn't;  —  I  was  crushed;  —  I 
had  been  '  weighed  in  the  balance  and  found 
wanting.'"  And  the  man  sighed  heavily. 


In  the  Valley  41 

"But  that  was  two  years  ago,"  said  Marjorie; 
"and  you  say  that  you  are  well  now,  and  that 
you  understand  horses.  Why  don't  you  work 
now?" 

The  man  looked  at  her  dismally.  "Oh,  no, 
I  couldn't  bear  to  touch  horses.  I  had  such 
beautiful  ones,  but  they  are  all  gone.  No,  it 
is  no  use;  —  and  I  don't  know  what  I  am  going 
to  do;  for  my  money  is  almost  gone  and  I  have 
such  a  terrible  fear  of  coming  to  want." 

"But  have  you  tried  working?"  asked  Mar- 
jorie. 

"Yes,  I  took  a  position  with  a  man  back  there," 
and  he  motioned  down  the  road;  "  but  he  didn't 
sympathize  with  my  condition  and  my  sorrow 
over  having  been  useless  in  a  time  of  need.  He 
was  a  very  hard  man,  and  I  couldn't  stand  it,  and 
so  I  left  him.  And  then  I  took  another  position 
where  the  people  didn't  understand  a  bit  better; 
and  were  cruel  in  their  speech,  besides.  Oh,  it 
was  a  grueling  experience!" 

Marjorie  sat  still  and  thought.  "And  you 
don't  feel  that  you  can  work?" 

"Of  course  I  could  work  if  people  would  only 
understand.  It  is  because  they  don't  under- 
stand, that  makes  it  so  hard." 

"Don't  understand  what?" 

"Why,  they  don't  understand  how  I  feel  about 
not  having  done  my  share,  while  all  the  others 
were  saving  lives  and  property." 


42  In  the  Valley 

"Well,  suppose  they  don't.  What  then? 
That  all  happened  at  the  time  of  the  flood;'* 
said  Marjorie,  a  little  smile  coming  about  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  at  the  sound  of  the  phrase. 

The  man  only  bent  his  head  lower.  "Yes," 
he  said,  "belabor  me.  I  deserve  it.  I  was  'a 
broken  reed.'  I  thought,  at  first,  that  you  were 
going  to  help  me  with  kind  words;  but,  like  the 
rest,  you  don't  understand." 

Marjorie  sat  up  very  straight.  "Now  listen," 
she  said;  "You  say  that  you  want  me  to  help 
you  with  kind  words.  All  right,  I'll  do  it.  Here 
they  are.  That  did  happen  at  the  time  of  the 
flood;  and  it's  just  as  past  as  Noah's  flood  is; 
so  what's  the  use  of  holding  its  carcass  up  close 
to  you  and  petting  it  and  mourning  over  it? 
Why  don't  you  bury  it  and  go  to  work?" 

The  man  looked  at  her,  astonished,  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  then  he  heaved  another  great  sigh.  * '  You're 
like  the  rest;  you  don't  understand;"  he  said, 
wearily.  "You'll  never  know  how  I  suffered. 
You  don't  understand." 

"Yes  I  do,"  said  Marjorie;  "I  do  understand, 
and  I  sympathize;  but  can't  you  see  that  this 
thing  that  you  say  is  crushing  you,  is  dead;  so 
what  is  the  use  of  carrying  it  around  with  you? 
Throw  it  off." 

"I  can't,"  he  said;  "It  is  my  badge  of  weak- 
ness. I  cannot  work,  and  the  fear  of  coming 
to  want,  never  leaves  me.  I  will  have  to  go  back 


In   the   Valley  43 

to  the  scenes  that  crushed  me.  My  friends  have 
not  much,  but  they  will  not  see  me  starve.  I 
will  have  to  go  back." 

Marjorie  pressed  her  lips  together.  "Once 
there  was  a  man,"  she  said;  "who  always  had 
that  fear  of  coming  to  want.  Someone  told 
me  this  story  a  long  time  ago.  He  was  always 
thinking  how  dreadful  it  would  be  if  he  should 
ever  get  down  to  his  last  penny.  That  was 
always  the  way  that  he  thought  of  it;  —  to  get 
down  to  his  last  penny, —  to  come  to  the  end. 
And  he  feared  it  so  that  he  was  all  bound  up  by 
the  thought,  no  matter  what  he  tried  to  do;  — 
and  it  hampered  him  in  every  way,  and  things 
began  to  go  wrong,  and  then  got  quite  bad,  and 
then  from  bad  to  worse,  and  then  from  worse 
to  worst;  and  at  last  one  day  he  stood  by  the 
roadside  and  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  coin  and 
held  it  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  and  looked  at  it. 
It  was  his  last  penny.  And  then  he  looked  up 
and  around  over  the  beautiful  country  and  the 
sunshine  and  the  sea  and  the  happy  people;  and 
he  said :  — '  Well  now,  is  this  really  the  thing 
that  I  have  been  fearing  all  my  life?  Is  this 
the  thing  that  has  been  a  burden  and  a  night- 
mare for  all  of  these  years?  Is  this  all  that  it  is?' 
And  then  he  laughed.  It  was  so  funny  to  find 
that  he  had  actually  reached  that  terrible  point, 
and  that  it  didn't  really  matter  much  after  all;  — 
that  all  of  the  terror  had  been  in  the  thinking 


44  In  the  Valley 

of  it, —  that  the  experience  itself,  wasn't  any- 
thing. And  then  he  looked  about  him  and 
laughed  again.  'Why,'  he  said,  'I  thought  that 
this  was  going  to  be  the  end  of  everything;  but 
it  isn't  the  end  of  anything,  it  is  the  starting  place; 
—  it  is  where  I  begin  all  over  again,  and  I  haven't 
a  thing  left  to  be  afraid  of.' ' 

Marjorie  sat  and  looked  at  the  man  when  she 
had  finished,  but  he  still  gazed  off,  gloomily,  over 
the  valley.  "He  hadn't  lost  his  grip,"  he  said 
dismally. 

Marjorie  stood  up.  "Forget  your  grip,"  she 
said,  "and  take  holdl" 

The  man  only  shook  his  head  dejectedly. 

Marjorie  glanced  around  at  the  Dream,  but 
he  only  grinned  a  bit  teasingly,  and  so  she  turned 
back  and  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  knew  a  boy 
once,"  she  said,  "who  could  lift  more  than  any 
other  boy  in  school.  He  wasn't  a  very  big  boy, 
and  he  didn't  look  particularly  strong  and  wasn't 
particularly  good  at  wrestling;  but  when  it  came 
to  lifting  anything  heavy,  he  could  always  do  a 
lot  better  than  anybody  else.  The  other  boys, 
bigger  than  he  was,  would  try  and  try;  and  he 
would  just  casually  come  along  and  pick  the 
thing  right  up.  Everyone  used  to  wonder 
about  it;  and  one  day  he  told  me  how  he  did  it. 
He  said  that  he  never  hefted  it  first.  The  other 
boys  would  try  it,  and  heft  it,  and  try  to  guage  its 
weight,  and  lift  at  it;  but  he  never  did  anything 


In  the  Valley  45 

like  that.  He  said;  'Why  should  I  waste  my 
strength  in  hefting  it?  That's  what  the  others 
do,  and  by  the  time  that  they  are  ready  to  really 
try,  they  are  tired  out  and  their  muscles  dulled. 
I  save  up  my  strength  and  go  to  it  fresh  and 
"all  there,"  and  just  pick  it  up  with  one  big 
effort.  It's  easy  that  way.'  Now,  don't  you 
think  that  all  of  us  do  too  much  hefting  first, 
when  we  see  something  that  looks  heavy  to  lift; 
and  then  when  we  really  try  to  do  it,  we  are  all 
frazzled  out  from  doing  so  much  hefting  with 
our  thoughts?" 

The  man  looked  at  Marjorie  curiously.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  he  had  shown  the  slightest 
interest.  "That's  something  of  an  idea,"  he 
said,  somewhat  grudgingly. 

Marjorie  followed  up  her  advantage.  "You 
see,  he  didn't  think  about  his  grip.  We  can't 
afford  to.  Suppose  that  this  man  coming  now 
with  the  span  of  horses,  stopped  to  think  about 
his  grip  on  the  reins;  where  would  he  be?" 

The  man  looked  up  the  road  and  his  eyes  lighted 
somewhat.  "That  certainly  is  a  fine  pair  of 
horses,"  he  said.  "Young  fellows,  aren't  they? 
—  see  how  they  pull !  The  one  on  this  side  isn't 
pulling  even,  something's  galling  him.  Look, 
see  where  that  strap  is  twisted?  That's  what's 
the  trouble." 

Marjorie  started  forward.  "Tell  the  man," 
she  cried. 


46  In  the  Valley 

But  the  other  settled  back,  loosely,  again. 
"What's  the  use?"  he  said. 

But  Marjorie  had  raised  her  hand,  motioning 
to  the  farmer  to  stop.  "There's  something  the 
matter  with  your  harness,"  she  called. 

The  farmer  drew  rein.  "What's  the  trouble?" 
he  asked.  "I  knew  that  something  was  wrong. 
I  can't  get  out  to  fix  it,  though." 

Marjorie  turned  to  the  man  on  the  ground, 
smiling  brightly;  "Hurry!"  she  said;  "You  can 
fix  it  in  a  minute.  You  know  just  how." 

The  impetus  of  her  eager  expectation  was  so 
strong  that  the  man  seemed  to  get  up  without 
thinking  and  came  over  to  the  horse  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  its  flank.  With  the  touch  of  the  strong, 
live  muscles,  something  vital  seemed  to  leap  into 
him,  and  he  straightened  up  and  became  taut 
and  interested.  With  deft  fingers  he  loosened 
the  strap  and  corrected  it;  all  the  time  soothing 
the  horse  and  talking  to  him  as  he  worked.  As 
he  finished,  the  farmer  looked  him  over  quickly. 
"Want  a  job?"  he  asked. 

The  man  hesitated.  Marjorie's  eyes  were  shin- 
ing. "Aren't  they  wonderful  horses!"  she  said. 

"They're  good  blood,"  said  the  farmer;  "Not 
blue  blood,  but  extra  good  stuff,  just  the  same. 
I'm  trying  to  break  them  for  farm  work,  and  no 
one  else  here  can  handle  them;  and  they  are  just 
about  all  that  I  want  to  manage,  myself;  but  I 
can't  spare  the  time  to  be  with  them  all  day.  I 


In  the  Valley  47 

can  see  that  you  know  horses,"  he  said,  turning 
to  the  man  again;  "I'd  like  to  take  you  on." 

Just  then  one  of  the  horses  started  and  swerved 
a  little,  and  Marjorie  saw  the  man's  hands  grip 
firmly,  as  if  he  had  hold  of  the  reins.  She  touched 
one  of  the  tight  fists  with  her  finger.  "You've 
got  it  back  again,"  she  whispered,  breathlessly; 
"You've  got  your  grip  back!" 

The  man  raised  both  closed  hands  and  looked 
at  them,  and  then  clenched  them  even  tighter. 
Then  he  looked  up  at  the  farmer.  "Yes,"  he 
said;  "I'd  like  the  job." 

"All  right,  climb  in,"  said  the  farmer.  "Here, 
take  the  reins.  Have  you  got  a  good,  firm  grip?" 

"I  have,"  said  the  man;  and  he  glanced  down 
at  Marjorie.  "I  have." 

A  little  choke  of  joy  came  into  Marjorie's 
throat.  "Good-bye,"  she  called,  "Good-bye! 
It's  going  to  be  splendid.  Good-bye!" 

The  farmer  turned  and  waved  a  hand  to  her, 
and  away  down  the  road  sped  the  team,  in  a  line 
so  straight  and  true  that  one  could  tell  that  they 
were  under  the  hand  of  a  master.  Marjorie 
turned  to  the  Dream.  "Oh,"  she  said,  "I'm  so 
glad!  I'm  so  glad!" 

"So  are  they,"  said  the  Dream.  "Well,  that 
was  worth  coming  back  for,  wasn't  it?  How 
did  you  find  out  what  it  was  that  called  you 
back?" 

Marjorie   shook   her   head   slowly.    "I    don't 


48  In  the  Valley 

know,  only  that  when  I  looked  at  him,  the  vague 
little  whiff  of  memory  of  the  message,  flitted  be- 
fore me;  and  I  seemed  to  feel  something  within 
me,  trying  to  brush  away  my  contempt  for  the 
whole  looseness  of  the  man;  —  some  sort  of  vital- 
ity that  was  trying  to  find  a  way  to  express  it- 
self through  me  and  reach  him;  —  and  so  I  just 
opened  the  way  and  let  it  come." 

"How  did  you  open  the  way?"  asked  the 
Dream. 

Marjorie  smiled.  "It  was  curious,"  she  said; 
"for  it  didn't  seem  as  if  I  could  love  him  at  all, 
especially  after  I  had  talked  to  him  a  little; 
but  I  knew  that  love  was  the  only  means  of  open- 
ing the  way;  and  so  I  suddenly  thought  of  how 
much  I  loved  the  violets;  and  then  I  just  gave 
myself  up  to  loving  them,  for  love  is  love,  anyway 
you  turn  it;  —  and  then,  the  first  thing  that  I 
knew,  I  didn't  feel  a  bit  of  aversion  for  him;  but 
was  only  eager  to  do  or  say  something  that  would 
help;-1- and  then  the  rest  seemed  just  to  come 
right  along.  Wasn't  it  wonderful  the  way  that 
it  turned  out?  Oh,  I'm  so  happy!" 

"And  you  don't  know  the  rest  of  the  message 
yet?"  asked  the  Dream. 

"No,  but  it  will  come.  I  know  that  it  will 
come,"  said  Marjorie.  "And  even  if  it  shouldn't, 
it  doesn't  matter  so  very  much,  as  long  as  I  can 
use  it  from  underneath,  whenever  I  need  it;  — 
but  I  would  just  love  to  remember  it,  because 


In  the  Valley  49 

it  was  very  beautiful   and   very  musical;  —  it 
was  almost  like  a  chant." 

As  they  walked  on,  they  had  turned  into  a 
very  narrow  trail  that  led  up  a  little  hill  which 
was  crowned  by  some  tall,  swaying  trees,  under 
which  was  a  group  of  great,  mossy  boulders.  At 
the  top  of  the  hill,  Marjorie  stopped  and  sat  down 
on  one  of  the  boulders  and  looked  away  across 
the  valley,  toward  the  steep,  green  mountains. 
"It  is  a  very  lovely  valley,"  she  said.  "It  must 
be  wonderful  all  the  year  around.  Every  season 
must  be  wonderful,  and  every  season  must  bring 
such  fascinating  work,  and  such  fascinating  re- 
turns. It  seems  such  a  happy  place;  but  I 
suppose — ,  yes,  sorrow  does  creep  in,  doesn't 
it?"  and  she  looked  toward  a  woman  who  was 
toiling  up  the  little  trail,  seeing  nothing  at  either 
right  or  left;  but  her  lips  were  set  tight  and 
her  eyes  looked  as  if  a  hand  were  twisting  at  her 
heart.  Marjorie's  face  filled  with  compassion. 
"Oh,"  she  said,  "what  can  I  do?  She  has 
a  hurt  that  she  cannot  share  with  a  stranger; 
but  I  do  so  want  to  help  her." 

The  woman  did  not  see  her  until  just  as  the 
trail  passed  close  in  front  of  the  boulder;  and 
then  she  started  back,  as  if  she  had  suddenly 
been  awakened  from  a  dream,  and  stepped  a 
little  farther  away  as  she  passed. 

Marjorie  got  up  quickly  and  followed  her,  and 
reached  her  at  a  little  bend  in  the  trail.  She 


smiled  up  into  the  tortured  face  and  held  out  her 
violets.  "These  are  to  bring  you  sweet  dreams," 
she  said. 

"Sweet  dreams?"  repeated  the  woman,  cur- 
iously; "  It  is  not  night." 

"No,"  said  Marjorie;  "but  our  day-dreams  are 
a  lot  more  important  than  our  night  dreams; 
for  we  live  in  them  so  much  of  the  time,  and  when 
other  persons  are  about,  too;  so  that  we  hurt 
them  when  we  have  bad  dreams;  and  sometimes 
make  them  share  our  nightmares  with  us;  — 
so  sweet  day-dreams  are  very,  very  important. 
Don't  you  think  so?  And  one  couldn't  look 
at  those  violets  and  have  a  bad  dream  at  the 
same  time,  could  he?" 

The  woman  took  the  violets  and  stood  looking 
at  them;  and  gradually  the  hurt  went  out  of  her 
face,  and  her  eyes  grew  misty  instead  of  tortured. 
Then  she  turned  and  looked  down  at  Marjorie, 
and  even  a  little  smile  came  about  her  lips.  "  No," 
she  said;  "One  couldn't  have  a  bad  dream,  with 
the  violets  and  you  near.  My  nightmare  has 
gone.  I  thank  you  more  than  I  can  tell  you;"- 
and  she  turned  away,  holding  the  violets  in  both 
of  her  hands  and  smiling  down  at  them. 

Marjorie  went  back  and  sat  down  on  the 
boulder  and  looked  away  toward  the  mountains 
once  more.  The  trees  swayed  and  flicked  their 
shadows  across  the  grass,  the  little  wind-flowers 
nodded  about  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  a  stray 


In  the  Valley  51 

breeze  ruffled  her  hair  into  bright,  loose  threads; 
but  she  only  sat  silent,  looking  away  to  the  moun- 
tains. 

The  Dream,  perched  upon  the  top  of  the  next 
boulder,  grew  restless.  "What  do  you  find  up 
there  in  the  mountains?"  he  asked. 

"  I  found  the  rest  of  the  message,"  said  Marjorie, 
gravely;  "but  I  didn't  find  it  up  in  the  moun- 
tains." 

"Where  did  you  find  it?"  asked  the  Dream. 

"I  found  it  in  the  woman's  eyes,  when  she 
looked  at  the  violets  and  at  me.  It  came  then, 
and  it  stayed." 

"And  you  know  it  all  now?     All  three  parts?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie.  "I  told  you  the  first 
part,  and  the  rest  is  much  like  it.  This  is  the 
second :  — 

Lo,  I  look  out  upon  the  world  through  thy  face; 

See  that  thou  dost  make  clear  the  way  for  the  pas- 
sage of  My  thought." 

"And  the  third?" 
"The  third  is:  — 

Lo,  I  speak  unto  the  world  through  thy  voice; 
See  that  thou  dost  keep  pure  the  tones  which  bear 
My  message" 

The  Dream  sat  still,  looking  away  toward  the 
mountains,  too.  "It  is  a  very  great  message," 
he  said  at  last;  "One  that  you  will  find  use  for 
in  all  of  the  days  to  come." 


52  In  the  Valley 

"And  it  will  keep  me  from  ever  being  lonely 
again,  or  feeling  weak  or  puzzled.  It  will  be  a 
friend,  and  will  keep  me  always  on  my  guard. 
Each  part  of  it  puts  me  in  touch  with  Him.  He 
is  always  watching  every  expression  that  I  turn 
toward  each  person  that  I  meet;  —  He  sees  me 
from  behind  their  eyes.  He  is  always  waiting 
to  express  love  through  my  face;  if  I  will  only 
let  it  shine  through.  He  is  always  waiting  to 
speak  His  message  through  my  voice;  if  I  keep 
the  tones  pure  enough  to  carry  it.  Oh,  I  wish 
that  I  could  be  worthy." 

"That  was  a  busy  bunch  of  violets,  today," 
said  the  Dream. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Marjorie:  "Every  blossom  was 
wonderful." 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  said  a  while  ago, 
about  being,  yourself,  made  up  of  experiences? 
Well,  if  you  made  every  one  of  your  experiences 
as  sweet  as  each  one  of  those  violets,  there 
wouldn't  be  any  question  about  your  being  worthy, 
would  there?" 

"But  some  of  the  experiences  are  so  hard  to 
keep  sweet,  or  make  sweet;"  said  Marjorie,  with 
a  sigh. 

"Are  they,  really?"  asked  the  Dream.  "All 
that  you  have  to  do  is  to  transmute  them  with 
love  and  understanding,  from  material  expe- 
riences into  spiritual  experiences;  —  and  when 
that  is  done,  the  only  thing  that  remains  is  a 


In  the  Valley  53 

bunch  of  sweet  thoughts;  just  as  sweet  and  just 
as  worthy  as  that  bunch  of  violets  that  worked 
with  you  all  day  today,  and  stayed  sweet  and 
fragrant  to  the  end." 

Marjorie  smiled  across  at  him.  "I  wonder," 
she  said;  "I  wonder  if  I  could  make  every  single 
experience  that  comes  to  me,  just  as  sweet,  and 
as  fragrant,  and  as  lovely  to  remember,  as  each 
of  those  violets  was." 

"Well,"  said  the  Dream,  "why  not  try  to  see 
how  large  a  bunch  of  perfectly  sweet  ones  you  can 
gather  as  you  go  along?  It  might  be  an  interest- 
ing experiment." 

"I  believe  I  will,"  said  Marjorie. 

"And,"  added  the  Dream,  "just  remember 
this;  that  when  you  get  through,  the  whole 
bunch  will  be  you." 


Lo,  I  look  out  upon  thee  from  the  faces  of  all  men; 

See  that  thou  dost  give  Me  cause  to  look  upon  thee  with  love. 

Lo,  I  look  out  upon  the  world  through  thy  face; 
See  that  thou  dost  make  clear  the  way  for  the  passage  of  My 
thought. 

Lo,  I  speak  unto  the  world  through  thy  voice; 

See  that  thou  dost  keep  pure  the  tones  which  bear  My  message. 


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